The flash fiction of Martin Dean: Honk, honk, Gandhi, and who am I?

Mother told me yesterday that my first given name is Martin. Dean is my middle. Fanning is my last. I am not Dean Martin. I am Martin Dean and it does not just roll down the tongue like my preferred name that I grew up with. It does not roll! I am having an identity crisis. This guy behind me is now honking. It’s the rush hour after work and the traffic chaos is full blown. I am helping reduce the clog by letting a few cars cut in and drive in the opposite direction. I am being a friendly driver, a good citizen and pollution minimiser whereas the guy behind me is a traffic asshole who keeps honking so I would move my car’s ass so that his car’s ass can sit among the stagnant group of cars ten feet closer to the traffic light that is showing red. He started honking after the second car. After the third, his honking got madder and easily translatable to our human language. I understand honkish and I know that he is saying some nasty stuff. I get out of my car and yell at him. He stops and looks away. I probably look crazy. I get back in my car and pull away. I am not a violent person and I avoid conflict as much as possible. I help clear the traffic jam. I wear a shirt with Gandhi’s face on it but I can be pretty intimidating. Also, there are grown people who don’t even know who Gandhi is. That’s the kind of world we live in. Martin Dean. What a shitty name. It’s like going from the Rat Pack to the Pack Rat. A humiliating identity demotion. But I am now riding a green wave, so that’s good.

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